by Pierre Pevel
‘No. I must deliver it in person.’
The steward, busy consulting a register that had just been presented to him, grew impatient.
‘Listen, I don’t have time to waste. We’re at war! The Ghelts have attacked three villages and taken captives. So either you give me the letter, or you—’
He interrupted himself when he raised his nose, because the stranger was already walking away.
He shrugged and returned to work as Lorn climbed a staircase leading to the ramparts.
Count Teogen of Argor had assembled the inner circle of his barons and knights at the top of a wide crenellated tower. Crowded around a table covered with maps, all of them were wearing armour, with swords at their side and gauntlets in their belts, their helmets tucked under their arms. Adjoining the main keep, the tower was used for launching wyverns. Scarlet banners flapping in the winds at the four corners of its wall walk, it loomed over the castle, its approaches and even the surrounding area, allowing one to see over considerable distances. From this position, it seemed that the entire province could be viewed, as far as the snowy peaks under a never-ending sky.
Teogen was holding a war council.
Placed upon the table, his famous fighting mace prevented the maps from rolling up while he discussed urgent measures to be carried out and pointed out a road to be taken, a bridge to be guarded, a mountain pass to be closed. It was a question of locating the Gheltish riders who had organised an incursion into the province and managed to pillage several villages and farms only a few leagues from the castle. The task was an arduous one because Argor was spread across countless valleys, hollows and glens. A maze. A maze protected by fortified towers, gates and bridges, to be sure. But any armour has its weakness and the Ghelts, who had been threatening the north-eastern border for months, had struck at the heart of the province. And they were elusive, vanishing immediately after each raid and appearing elsewhere unexpectedly.
The latest attack, however, had been one too many. It had taken place just when Teogen was calling up his cavalry and assembling an army. The army was still not up to full strength, but the count now had enough horsemen to comb the northern part of his province, hunt down the Gheltish marauders and – with the help of the Red Dragon – run them through with steel.
‘Time is of essence,’ said Teogen of Argor.
Bent over his maps, he studied them with a baleful eye.
‘The Ghelts have taken female captives,’ he continued. ‘If they haven’t already had their way and killed them, it means that they are intending to cross back over the border soon, along with their prizes.’
‘The Ghelts will escape us if they regain their territory,’ said a knight with a gaunt face, white hair and leathery skin.
‘That’s true,’ confirmed Teogen. ‘We’d be unable to execute them for their crimes and we’d never see their prisoners again.’
‘Why not cross the border? Why not pursue these Ghelts into their own territory?’ asked a young baron. ‘They have no scruples about doing the same to us!’
‘Because it would be suicide,’ replied Orwain. ‘Even at the head of an army.’
‘And it would start a war,’ added Teogen.
‘A war?’ objected the young knight. ‘But isn’t that what we already have—?’
‘No, Guilhem,’ the count interrupted. ‘If we were at war with the Ghelts, we would know it. And we would have greater worries than a band of marauders. All Argor would be a bloody battlefield.’ His face darkened at the thought of another Gheltish war. ‘I would rather believe we’re dealing with warriors who, for one reason or another, have decided they no longer respect the treaties. Perhaps they belong to a clan that has splintered off. If they’ve just crowned a young king who’s a little too ambitious …’
The Count of Argor, sighed, straightened up and looked round at his vassals with a grave face. Despite his years, he remained a formidable man and still wore the same breastplate that had protected him during Erklant II’s early campaigns.
‘I won’t take the risk of starting a war,’ he added. ‘But there’s no question of allowing these Ghelts’ crimes to go unpunished. We’ll catch them before they regain their territory and we’ll put them to the sword.’
Everyone nodded except Orwain, who said in a low voice, as if to himself:
‘Executing these warriors may provoke the clans’ anger. It would be better to capture them and hand them over to be judged and sentenced by their own kind.’
There were murmurs of disapproval in response to this, but he took no offence. He knew he was right, but he also knew that the voice of wisdom was rarely heeded in difficult times.
The Baron of Ortand spoke up.
His features drawn by fatigue and anger, he had been one of the first to answer the Count of Argor’s call to arms. Some of the pillaging perpetrated by the Ghelts had taken place on his estate. He had witnessed impotent, tortured bodies hanging from the trees or burned in the still smoking ruins of buildings.
‘These barbarians have looted, raped and killed. They have shed Argorian blood. They should pay the price on the end of an Argorian blade or rope.’
The others expressed their agreement.
Orwain exchanged a look with Teogen and realised that Teogen would have to satisfy his vassals on this point. Besides, it was not just a question of vengeance; no doubt they needed to teach the Ghelts that Argor’s borders could not be violated with impunity and that the count would fight back.
‘Have no fear, Ortand,’ Teogen replied. ‘Their heads will end up on our pikes.’
The baron nodded, mollified.
‘But we still need to find them before we can eliminate them,’ said a knight whose armour was decorated with black and scarlet patterns. ‘These Ghelts did not come on a whim. They waited for the season when our wyverners cannot take to the skies and they seem to be familiar with the valleys they’re passing through. Even with an army, hunting them down will be no easy task.’
Tall, slender, dark-eyed and sporting a well-trimmed beard, Dorian of Leister cut an imposing figure. At his side hung a sword whose pommel was adorned with a red opal. He would soon be thirty years old and seemed rich and cultivated, even refined. Needless to say, he stood out among the other rustic lords of Argor, even Teogen himself.
But he was nevertheless treated with respect.
And heeded.
‘True,’ said the count. ‘But if the Ghelts are returning to their lands as I believe, then we can concentrate our searches in these regions.’ He pointed with his index finger to three places on the largest and most detailed of the maps spread across the table. ‘Because they will need to cross one or another of these passes, won’t they?’
Orwain shared his opinion.
However, he did not need to study the map closely before raising an objection:
‘Seven passes. Nine, if the Ghelts take the risk of crossing the Dark Vale or the Steel Falls. That’s too many. Even if we left now, we could not watch them all.’
The count nodded in reluctant agreement.
‘I’m well aware of that.’
‘Some of our patrols haven’t returned yet,’ said Leister. ‘The last should be back by tomorrow evening, let’s wait for them. Perhaps they will bring us the intelligence we’re still lacking.’
Teogen knew that this was the wisest course. Yet he fumed at the idea of delaying longer.
And longer …
‘One of those patrols will not be returning,’ announced Lorn.
All eyes turned towards him.
Lorn had resolved to find the Count of Argor by his own means and had succeeded without much difficulty. It had been enough to show the signet ring on his finger to each sentry he met. His confidence and natural air of authority did the rest. He was not one of those who found his way blocked for long.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked the Count of Argor.
‘The High King sent me.’
‘So, that’s it, then? I’m finall
y being sent the help I’ve been demanding for months now, to guard the border?’ he asked ironically, raising several smiles from the other lords. ‘You’ve arrived in the nick of time, knight. But I was expecting more than one sword.’ He looked down at Lorn’s weapon. ‘A Skandish blade, if I’m not mistaken …’
Staring at Lorn as he removed his hood but kept on his dark glasses, Teogen declared:
‘I know you. You’re Lorn, aren’t you? The son of the master-of-arms.’
‘That’s me. Lorn Askarian.’
Fist over his heart, Lorn bowed to salute the Count of Argor. The latter was now recalling other details and, despite his outward lack of expression, Lorn read in the other man’s eyes what he was thinking at that precise instant:
Dalroth.
Lorn drew a letter from his sleeve and stepped closer.
The High King has charged me—’ he began to say.
But Leister interposed himself between Lorn and the table. Lorn challenged him wordlessly. A silent contest then ensued before the vassals, most of whom had placed their hands upon their swords. Orwain advanced prudently, with the intention of preventing an open quarrel.
It was Teogen, however, who disarmed the situation.
‘You said that one of our patrols would not return. What do you know of that?’ he asked.
Lorn turned towards him.
‘They were massacred by the Ghelts,’ he announced, provoking stunned silence. ‘I watched the battle.’
‘Watched, hmm?’ said Leister.
Lorn ignored him. He reckoned he owed no accounting to anyone, unless it were the count.
‘I kept a soldier company during his final instants,’ he said. ‘His name was Sares.’
Teogen consulted Orwain with a glance.
The old knight nodded gravely: Sares was indeed the name of a soldier who had left on patrol that very morning.
‘When did this happen?’ Orwain asked.
‘A few hours ago.’
‘Where?’ demanded Teogen. ‘Show me.’
Lorn waited for Leister to step aside and advanced to the table, bent over the map presented to him, hunted … and pointed to a valley.
‘Here,’ he said.
The count and his vassals seemed puzzled.
‘Are you sure?’ asked one of them.
‘Yes.’
‘That can’t be,’ said another.
‘I know how to read a map,’ said Lorn in an unfriendly tone.
Looking worried and perplexed, Teogen pored over the map, thinking aloud:
‘That makes no sense at all …’
‘Why?’ asked Lorn without addressing anyone in particular. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘If you’re not mistaken …’ Orwain began to explain.
‘I’m not.’
‘If you’re not mistaken, then the Ghelts aren’t returning to their territory as we believed. It makes no sense because they’ve taken captives who can only be slowing them down … How many of them were there attacking the patrol?’
‘A little more than twenty riders.’
‘Then they weren’t all there.’
‘More than twenty Gheltish warriors against a patrol!’ protested Guilhem, the youngest knight present. ‘And you did nothing?’
‘There was nothing a single man could do,’ retorted Orwain, pre-empting any response by Lorn.
And turning to Lorn again, he asked:
‘Did you see any prisoners?’
‘None.’
‘Then they were with the other Ghelts …’
‘Or they were already dead.’
Orwain stared at Lorn.
He reminded the old knight of certain veterans in whom the experience of war had erased any trace of humanity. They made excellent fighters. But although such men could win victories and change destinies, although they made formidable adversaries and precious allies on the battlefield, they were lost souls who would founder sooner or later.
‘Unless …’
Teogen did not finish his sentence.
Hurriedly, he pushed aside his mace to retrieve a packet of maps which he pawed through roughly, until he found one – the oldest and most ragged of the lot – showing some ridges, passes and valleys in detail. Having unfolded it, he consulted it briefly and displayed a smile.
‘That’s it!’ he said.
‘What?’ asked Orwain.
‘Don’t you see?’
The landless knight studied the map, but it was Leister who found the solution first.
‘The Twin Passes!’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said the count, straightening up his massive body. ‘The Twin Passes. The Ghelts are trying to return to their territory, but they’re not taking the shortest route.’
‘Or the most obvious one,’ observed Orwain. ‘We would never have gone looking for them out there. Or only too late, after finding that patrol …’
Teogen turned towards Lorn with a grateful look.
‘Thank you, knight. Your help has been invaluable.’
And addressing his vassals, he declared:
‘My lords, tomorrow we leave on an expedition from which not all of us shall return. Choose your best blades, your best men and your best horses. Go! You know what to do.’
Everyone nodded and, with a clatter of armour and ironclad heels, they went off to issue their orders. Lorn remained alone with the Count of Argor and Orwain. Evening was approaching and night would fall quickly, as it always did in the mountains. A north wind rose, cold and sharp.
Without saying a word, Teogen held out his hand.
Lorn gave him the High King’s letter and waited. The count broke open the seal before perusing it. Then he refolded it carefully and slipped it into his sleeve with slow gestures, giving himself time for thought.
Then he gave Lorn a long searching look as if he hoped to find in him all the answers he was seeking. His gaze lingered particularly on the hand wrapped in leather, which was also the one on which Lorn wore an onyx ring adorned with a silver wolf’s head set against two crossed swords. Teogen wore one that was almost identical, except that it did not bear a royal crown. As far as he knew, there was only one of its kind, and he had always seen it on the High King’s ring finger.
‘The king has made you First Knight of the Realm,’ he said in a cold matter-of-fact tone.
‘Yes,’ Lorn replied.
‘Do you know the content of this letter?’
Lorn shook his head.
He did not know what the count was trying to learn, what questions the royal missive had aroused in him. He had no idea what it said, but he guessed that it posed a problem for the count and that he, Lorn, was somehow involved in it.
Teogen stood up abruptly and, as he started to walk away with a brisk step, said in a firm tone:
‘You will dine at my table this evening, knight. You will then remain for as long as you desire beneath my roof. Unfortunately, as you know, it will be impossible for me to keep you company.’
‘I’m not staying,’ said Lorn.
Teogen halted.
‘You’ve made a long journey from the Citadel. You should rest.’
‘I’m riding out with you tomorrow.’
The count hesitated.
‘I know your history,’ he said, thinking of Dalroth, the Dark and the ordeals Lorn had endured.
‘Then you know I have fought the Ghelts before and that my help could be precious to you. Besides, can you really afford to turn down an extra sword? Are you hoping that reinforcements will come from the High Kingdom? You made a jest about it just now, but as far as reinforcements are concerned, it’s just me. And it was the High King who sent me.’
4
‘Erklant’s first feat of glory was to liberate the provinces of the High Kingdom that had been invaded by Yrgaard. The second was to avenge his father whose life had been stolen by the Dragon’s Sword. The third was the conquest of the Free Cities, for the High King did not content himself with retaking the lands that were his. He
captured the Cities, driving out the armies of the Black Hydra who returned to Yrgaard, beyond the Sea of Mists and its bleak shores.’
Chronicles (The Book of Kings)
That morning, the High King had not found the strength to rise. He kept to his bed in his chamber draped in black and grey, refusing all food, wanting only to wet his lips with a glass of honeyed wine. The servants washed him as they would have washed a dead man.
In the evening, he called for Norfold.
‘Any news of Lorn?’ he asked.
The air was heavy with scents meant to mask the morbid odour of his dying body.
‘None,’ replied the captain of the royal guard.
He was dressed in armour. His sword at his side, he wore the famous grey breastplate and carried his crested helmet under his arm.
‘Do you think he’s already arrived in Argor?’
If he had indeed taken the road to Argor, thought Norfold.
‘No doubt,’ he replied.
‘Then he has met the count. And given him the letter.’
The High King grew thoughtful and added:
‘Good. Yes, good … Good …’
And then gathering his wits, he said:
‘When he opens the letter, Teogen will understand. I know him. He will understand. And he will do what needs to be done …’
Looking even graver than usual, Norfold said nothing. He was a soldier. He knew when to remain silent and keep his feelings to himself.
But the old king knew him well enough to read his thoughts.
‘You don’t approve of my choice, Norfold.’
‘Sire, it is not for me to—’
‘I know what you’re thinking!’
And as the High King seemed to be waiting for him to explain, the captain hesitated, and then said:
‘You have made him First Knight of the Realm, sire.’
‘You don’t believe him worthy of it? Yet I remember when you wanted him to succeed you one day at the head of the Grey Guard …’
Norfold nodded and said in a vibrant voice:
‘He committed treason. He abandoned all honour and duty.’
‘He was unjustly accused. It was a plot. He was innocent.’